_A Second Refusal_
A VERY few days after his return the Duke of St. James dined with Mr.
Dacre. It was the first time that he had dined with him during the
season. The Fitz-pompeys were there; and, among others, his Grace had
the pleasure of again meeting a few of his Yorkshire friends.
Once more he found himself at the right hand of Miss Dacre. All
his career, since his arrival in England, flitted across his mind.
Doncaster, dear Don-caster, where he had first seen her, teemed only
with delightful reminiscences to a man whose favourite had bolted. Such
is the magic of love! Then came Castle Dacre and the orange terrace, and
their airy romps, and the delightful party to Hauteville; and then Dacre
Abbey. An involuntary shudder seemed to damp all the ardour of his soul;
but when he turned and looked upon her beaming face, he could not feel
miserable.
He thought that he had never been at so agreeable a party in his life:
yet it was chiefly composed of the very beings whom he daily execrated
for their powers of boredom. And he himself was not very entertaining.
He was certainly more silent than loquacious, and found himself often
gazing with mute admiration on the little mouth, every word breathed
forth from which seemed inspiration. Yet he was happy. Oh! what
happiness is his who dotes upon a woman! Few could observe from his
conduct what was passing in his mind; yet the quivering of his softened
tones and the mild lustre of his mellowed gaze; his subdued and quiet
manner; his un-perceived yet infinite attentions; his memory of little
incidents that all but lovers would have forgotten; the total absence
of all compliment, and gallantry, and repartee; all these, to a fine
observer, might have been gentle indications of a strong passion; and
to her to whom they were addressed sufficiently intimated that no change
had taken place in his feelings since the warm hour in which he first
whispered his o’erpowering love.
The ladies retired, and the Duke of St. James fell into a reverie. A
political discourse of elaborate genius now arose. Lord Fitz-pompey
got parliamentary. Young Faulcon made his escape, having previously
whispered to another youth, not unheard by the Duke of St. James, that
his mother was about to depart, and he was convoy. His Grace, too,
had heard Lady Fitz-pompey say that she was going early to the opera.
Shortly afterwards parties evidently retired. But the debate still
raged. Lord Fitz-pompey had caught a stout Yorkshire squire, and was
delightedly astounding with official graces his stern opponent. A sudden
thought occurred to the Duke; he stole out of the room, and gained the
saloon.
He found it almost empty. With sincere pleasure he bid Lady Balmont, who
was on the point of departure, farewell, and promised to look in at her
box. He seated himself by Lady Greville Nugent, and dexterously made her
follow Lady Balmont’s example. She withdrew with the conviction that
his Grace would not be a moment behind her. There were only old Mrs.
Hungerford and her rich daughter remaining. They were in such raptures
with Miss Dacre’s singing that his Grace was quite in despair; but
chance favoured him. Even old Mrs. Hungerford this night broke through
her rule of not going to more than one house, and she drove off to Lady
de Courcy’s.
They were alone. It is sometimes an awful thing to be alone with those
we love.
‘Sing that again!’ asked the Duke, imploringly. ‘It is my favourite air;
it always reminds me of Dacre.’
She sang, she ceased; she sang with beauty, and she ceased with grace;
but all unnoticed by the tumultuous soul of her adoring guest. His
thoughts were intent upon a greater object. The opportunity was sweet;
and yet those boisterous wassailers, they might spoil all.
‘Do you know that this is the first time that I have seen your rooms lit
up?’ said the Duke.
‘Is it possible! I hope they gain the approbation of so distinguished a
judge.’
‘I admire them exceedingly. By-the-bye, I see a new cabinet in the
next room. Swaby told me, the other day, that you were one of his
lady-patronesses. I wish you would show it me. I am very curious in
cabinets.’
She rose, and they advanced to the end of another and a longer room.
‘This is a beautiful saloon,’ said the Duke. ‘How long is it?’
‘I really do not know; but I think between forty and fifty feet.’
‘Oh! you must be mistaken. Forty or fifty feet! I am an excellent
judge of distances. I will try. Forty or fifty feet! Ah! the next room
included. Let us walk to the end of the next room. Each of my paces
shall be one foot and a half.’
They had now arrived at the end of the third room.
‘Let me see,’ resumed the Duke; ‘you have a small room to the right. Oh!
did I not hear that you had made a conservatory? I see, I see it;
lit up, too! Let us go in. I want to gain some hints about London
conservatories.’
It was not exactly a conservatory; but a balcony of large dimensions
had been fitted up on each side with coloured glass, and was open to the
gardens. It was a rich night of fragrant June. The moon and stars
were as bright as if they had shone over the terrace of Dacre, and the
perfume of the flowers reminded him of his favourite orange-trees. The
mild, cool scene was such a contrast to the hot and noisy chamber they
had recently quitted, that for a moment they were silent.
‘You are not afraid of this delicious air?’ asked his Grace.
‘Midsummer air,’ said Miss Dacre, ‘must surely be harmless.’
Again there was silence; and Miss Dacre, after having plucked a flower
and tended a plant, seemed to express an intention of withdrawing.
Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heartfelt words:
‘Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to be offended, if I dare
to ask whether anything could induce you to view with more indulgence
one who sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you.’
‘You are the last person whose feelings I should wish to hurt. Let us
not revive a conversation to which, I can assure you, neither of us
looks back with satisfaction.’
‘Is there, then, no hope? Must I ever live with the consciousness of
being the object of your scorn?’
‘Oh, no, no! As you will speak, let us understand each other. However I
may approve of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to repent the
manner in which it was conveyed. I cannot, without the most unfeigned
regret, I cannot for a moment remember that I have addressed a
bitter word to one to whom I am under the greatest obligations. If my
apologies----’
‘Pray, pray be silent!’
‘I must speak. If my apologies, my complete, my most humble apologies,
can be any compensation for treating with such lightness feelings which
I now respect, and offers by which I now consider myself honoured,
accept them!’
‘O, Miss Dacre! that fatal word, respect!’
‘We have warmer words in this house for you. You are now our friend.’
‘I dare not urge a suit which may offend you; yet, if you could read my
heart, I sometimes think that we might be happy. Let me hope!’
‘My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will not ever offend me,
because I am sure you will not ever wish to do it. There are few people
in this world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard than yourself.
I am convinced, I am conscious, that when we met I did sufficient
justice neither to your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible for
me to express with what satisfaction I now feel that you have resumed
that place in the affections of this family to which you have an
hereditary right. I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful, for all
that you feel with regard to me individually; and believe me, in again
expressing my regret that it is not in my power to view you in any other
light than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing that conduct
which will conduce as much to your happiness as my own.’
‘My happiness, Miss Dacre!’
‘Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again endeavour to depreciate
the feelings which you entertain for me, and by which, ever remember,
I feel honoured; but these very feelings prevent you from viewing their
object so dispassionately as I do.’
‘I am at a loss for your meaning; at least, favour me by speaking
explicitly: you see I respect your sentiments, and do not presume to
urge that on which my very happiness depends.’
‘To be brief, then, I will not affect to conceal that marriage is a
state which has often been the object of my meditations. I think it the
duty of all women that so important a change in their destiny should
be well considered. If I know anything of myself, I am convinced that I
should never survive an unhappy marriage.’
‘But why dream of anything so utterly impossible?’
‘So very probable, so very certain, you mean. Ay! I repeat my words, for
they are truth. If I ever marry, it is to devote every feeling and every
thought, each hour, each instant of existence, to a single being for
whom I alone live. Such devotion I expect in return; without it I should
die, or wish to die; but such devotion can never be returned by you.’
‘You amaze me! I! who live only on your image.’
‘Your education, the habits in which you are brought up, the maxims
which have been instilled into you from your infancy, the system which
each year of your life has more matured, the worldly levity with which
everything connected with woman is viewed by you and your companions;
whatever may be your natural dispositions, all this would prevent you,
all this would render it a perfect impossibility, all this will ever
make you utterly unconscious of the importance of the subject on which
we are now conversing. Pardon me for saying it, you know not of what you
speak. Yes! however sincere may be the expression of your feelings to me
this moment, I shudder to think on whom your memory dwelt even this hour
but yesterday. I never will peril my happiness on such a chance; but
there are others who do not think as I do.’
‘Miss Dacre! save me! If you knew all, you would not doubt. This moment
is my destiny.’
‘My dear Duke of St. James, save yourself. There is yet time. You have
my prayers.’
‘Let me then hope----’
‘Indeed, indeed, it cannot be. Here our conversation on this subject
ends for ever.’
‘Yet we part friends!’ He spoke in a broken voice.
‘The best and truest!’ She extended her arm; he pressed her hand to his
impassioned lips, and quitted the house, mad with love and misery.